


Inside the Imitation

by Belladonna_Q



Category: Hannibal (TV), The Thing
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Art collaboration, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Gaslighting, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Mindfuck, Minor Character Death, Psychological Horror, Sexual Content, Tags to be added, Tentacles, Violence, animal cruelty, prompts, reapersun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2017-02-13
Packaged: 2018-08-27 01:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8383048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belladonna_Q/pseuds/Belladonna_Q
Summary: An NBC Hannibal crossover with the horror film, The Thing (1982).Criminal Profiler Will Graham and noted psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter both have special skill-sets which make them valuable to the FBI. They are called to investigate an unusual missing persons cold case, as well as a fire-bombed government institution...and something monstrous wreaking havoc through Virginia and Maryland.





	1. Evade

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: 
> 
> This was a prompt on Reapersun's Patreon from an earlier prompt collection, that we both liked but didn't get the chance to complete until now. I aimed to write this in a way you do not need to have knowledge on The Thing film. I took main elements from Hannibal, and some elements from The Thing, to put into this story. Entirely an AU for both, as you will soon see, if you are familiar with either you'll notice the changes. Hopefully you enjoy. Thanks!

 

 

**Chapter One: Evade**

** **

 

When the wind blows hard across the surface of the iced and snowy fields of Virginia in winter, the whole of the universe is reduced to more simple elements. The horizon ceases to exist as sky and land converge into a blistery, snowy muddle of white.

Out of that erratic, swirling whiteness came a sound; a frantically loud droning of a massive bee. It sliced through the groan of the wind and it was much too close to the ground. A helicopter struggled to maintain altitude, its pilot a grizzled man swearing violently into the air. His eyes were bloodshot and wide, white and grey whiskers whipping against his cheeks and chin. His body shook with unfathomable exhaustion. The man should not have been standing, let alone attempting to pilot such an unwieldy craft into the air.

His sole companion in the helicopter was larger than him; burly and clean shaven but with the same horror-stricken expression. There was no light in his eyes, even as the burly man felt a fire within him, burning hot with desperation. He shouted directions, his voice booming over the howl of the machine. He struggled with a pair of old binoculars, fighting to see through the blizzard-like conditions. On his large lap rested a high-powered hunting rifle. A scientist by trade, the man’s hands shook while he attempted to mount a scope onto the weapon with no finesse or practiced ease. Used to so many elegant instruments in his lab, the large and foreign appliance felt clumsy in his hands.

Snapping on the scope, he grabbed the binoculars and squinted down to the snow below through the small window. With one movement he heavily shouldered open the door of the chopper. The pilot snarled a command, and the companion responded by raising the rifle. Hands still shaking, he double-checked the shell in its chamber.

A large and sudden gust of wind caught the machine like a rogue wave, sending it sideways in the sky. The men screamed at each other, cursing the weather and God as they were tossed into the air.

With several frantic motions, the pilot pointed to the snow.

Just a head and below, a dog turned to bare teeth at his pursuers. He was a brindled, medium sized mutt with gold and black matted fur and wholly out of place in the cold white tundra-like conditions. The dog wheeled and jumped forward just as a shell exploded at his heels. The sound of the shot echoed briefly before being swallowed by the wind.

The second shot rang out. It went wild and struck nothing but sky. A third, the same. The pilot turned and slammed a meaty fist into the shoulder of the shooter, pleading, begging, for better aim.

The dog fumbled, shaky legs stumbling upon black ice and the two men jolted at the realization road was now beneath them. Heading too close toward civilization. If they had had the time to spare, they would have looked at each other in terror.

The frantic man placed an eye to the scope and the blast from the rifle missing the dog once again.

The animal panted, panicked, pulling itself together and galloping down the road.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Nora would have kicked the tire of her own van if she felt it at all would have helped. Instead, she pulled her fur-lined hoodie closer to her face, spitting out stray stands of her blonde hair as it whipped across her mouth.

“Fuck.” She spat, crossing arms across her chest and really, really wanting to knock a boot into the piece of shit. “Benning. Benning! _Benning_!”

“Jesus, what,” her companion snapped back with a slam of the hood of the van, dusting off his gloved hands.

“Well?” She snapped right back, bending her knees with an exaggerated motion to their vehicle. “Did you fix it?”

“Of course not, not in this,” Benning flapped a hand into the swirling air.  “We’ve half a tank. My suggestion? We get our asses back in the van and wait this shit out until morning.”

“We have a God damn deadline you fucking asshole!” Nora took a large step forward and Benning took a resigned step back. “Radio the editor, let him know—“

A familiar but loudly unexpected noise, followed by a distant thrum, made them both jump and spin in unison to look behind them well down the road. Out in the distance, through blowing ice particles, came a helicopter, its spotlight moving frantically. Benning’s eyes went wide, knowing such a machine should not be out in this weather. The chopper dipped low, nearly snagging on the iced pavement.

“What the fuck is that? Did-did you radio into the station? Is that one of ours?”

Benning squinted before he shook his head. “No that’s… no. That’s not a news chopper…”

A man leaned out of its right side of the cockpit, clearly with no thought to his own safety. He fired a gun, a rifle, at a small running object. Nora could see it now, a dog well into the distance, running right for them down the middle of the road.

She snapped her head to her right, looking to Benning only to find the man staring at her with equal astonishment. For a moment both of them were incapable of explaining the insanity coming right for them.

“Grab the camera!” Nora blurted, already lunging to the van.

Benning startled, finding it hard to move his legs. “W-what?—“

“Grab the God damn—!“

The chopper hit the road going much too fast. The skis bounced off hard ice, clearing the racing, weaving dog, which cut sharply to its right to avoid the spinning metal.

“Holy shit!” Benning grabbed Nora, shoving them both to their knees to huddle by the van, just as the aircraft bounced, once, twice, three times before skidding.

As it skid, it seemed as if it might have a safe stop, now a hundred yards or so away from the pair. But the wind caught it, skewing it dangerously sideways. It flipped over on its side and its rotors snapped like toothpicks. A blade _whooshed_ by their van, striking a snowbank to their left. The fragments of steel went whizzing around through the air in random directions and Benning pulled Nora to his chest and opened his eyes, to see a man jump clear of the chopper. He was holding a rifle as he stumbled to his feet.

The man was bleeding from the temple and he limped as he staggered down the road. Benning huddled closer to their van as he felt a giant flood of warmth invade the air, watching as the chopper’s fuel tanks erupted, vomiting fire into the sky.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” he heard Nora mutter insensibly into his chest.

“Get up, get up, get up,” he chanted back, more for himself than for her, and the pair stood, backs up against their white news van.

The dog reached them at that moment, foam at its mouth and chest heaving in great swallows of air. At the same time the chopper’s sole survivor spotted them and bellowed something in a language neither of them understood. He was reloading his weapon as he raved at them.

“Hey, buddy, what happened!?” Benning yelled through the wind. “What the hell—“

There was no sign of any comprehension the man with the rifle showed as he waved furiously at them. He was screaming steadily. Blood was beginning to freeze on his face, blocking his vision in one eye.

Nora looked down as the dog began furiously licking her gloved hands, tail whipping back and forth, beating against her leg. Out of habit of her own dogs, she curled her gloved fingers to lightly scratch its forehead, almost numb to the act.

The gun roared as the man came stumbling toward them, yelling. He attempted to aim, but bright blood blocked his vision, running down his face. Blood, and something else.

Ice and snow flew skyward as one bullet after another whacked into the ground around the stunned pair. Nora flinched as the third shot smacked wetly into the dog’s side, sending it spinning. It yelped in pain and collapsed at her feet.

The gun swerved wildly in their direction. The fourth struck Benning in the chest.

Nora screamed, hands flying to her mouth as her companion fell over on his side. Beside her, the dog stood, nape bristling. With so much white snow, crimson blood bloomed brilliantly against it as it drizzled out in a steady, dark flood from the animal’s mouth. Its fanged teeth seemed impossibly long, impossibly sharp, for such a breed. Nora sank to the ground in terror as the gunman continued to approach.

The survivor however stopped suddenly and frantically struggled to reload his weapon. Shells fell clumsily from his jacket pocket and into the snow. He fell on them, scrabbling through the white powder to shove them into the magazine one at a time as the dog continued to pace and stalk, teeth bared.

Nora shifted, hands falling onto Benning’s body to steady herself as she stood and flung open the van door with a rattle. She caught a glove in her teeth and pulled, yanking the damn thing off as she sought her bag. Her fingers fumbled along familiar buttons just as a roar sounded behind her and something ensnared her leg, and yanked.

She screamed but it was lost to the wind.


	2. WGGk

**Chapter Two: WGGK**

His destination is little less than a forty-five minute drive outside of Quantico. Nestled neatly amongst a field of sunbathed grass and tall, naked trees rested a well-kept farmhouse, a picturesque scene that made him think of the word ‘quaint’ almost instantly. A fair bit of nostalgia rubbed against the inside of his heart, the home itself reminding him of the memories from childhood he often kept tucked away.

Two, perhaps three, large dogs began to bark excitedly at the sound of his car door slamming. With each button he did on his heavy longcoat, Jack Crawford steeled himself to greet their owner.

A man emerged from the front door as if evoked, exiting the threshold quickly to confront Jack from the porch. “Stay,” he says quite calmly to whimpering dogs, as he shuts the door with a slam and approaches between two pillars at the entrance way. He is handsome, and quite younger than Jack had remembered from previous encounters. His feet are bare, dark hair a tussled, curled mess. His simple clothes appear sleep-warm and rumpled, eyes wide and unfocused as if startled from dreamscape. Quickly settling thin glasses on his face, his dark eyes meet Jack’s, before flicking away.

“Will Graham?” Jack begins, tone friendly as he tucks his hands into coat pockets. The man’s mouth is pressed firmly closed, so Jack continues. “I quite apologize for intruding on your lovely home here. I’ve spoken to a Dr. Bloom, with whom I’m sure you’re familiar. We have—“

“Alana told you where I live?” Will snorts at this, scrubbing a hand through his hair and looking out into the fields. He makes no motion to tread down the steps to properly greet Jack, instead taking a literal high-ground. He leans against a post, crossing his feet at his ankles. “I do have a phone. I don’t suppose she gave you that as well.”

“She did,” Jack begins with a nod, rocking back on his heels. He follows Will’s gaze out of sheer curiosity, but nothing of particular note is there in the empty yard. He looks to Will once more, continuing. “However, I prefer these types of meetings take place in person. Adds the,” he makes a small punching motion, “personal touch.”

“Is this the part where you get to why you’re here, and what ‘type’ of meeting is currently taking place? And I can do without the personal touching, thanks.”

“Alright. Will, I’m Special Agent Jack Crawford. I lead the Behavioral Science Unit.”

“We’ve met already,” Will says succinctly. Adjusting his glasses, he brings his gaze on Jack’s car, before his eyes skim to the Special Agent’s hands, and then his shoes. Anywhere, it seems, other than his eyes. Jack gives a polite nod, aware they had in fact met previously, but he hadn’t intended to broach it in such a manner.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “I believe we had our differences regarding the museum.”

“I only disagreed on what you named it,” there’s enough of a snarky tone about it that Jack tilts his head, prepared to only listen. “The Evil Minds Research Museum, Jack? A little hammy, don’t you think?”

Jack finds himself admiring the man’s bluntness. He decides to return the favor, “Where do you fall on the spectrum?”

Will snorts again. He presses his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and for a fleeting moment, their eyes meet. “My horse is hitched to a post closer to Aspergers and Autistics than narcissists and sociopaths.”

“But you can empathize with narcissists and sociopaths,” Jack says, folding his arms.

“I can empathize with anybody and anything. Less to do with personality disorders than an active imagination,” he pauses, and there’s a glance of irritation that flares within his expression. “If you were looking for an in-person meeting Jack, I do teach on occasion at Quantico. There’s no need to make a special trip.”

“My intention had in fact been to have this conversation after your class. However, you were not in today, and our timeline is being pressed, in light of new information.”

“’New information’,” Will says it slowly, frowning. “What exactly is this about, Jack?”

The Special Agent catches his wrist behind his back, and leans in. “This is about my looking to borrow your active imagination. What do you know of the WGGK Station Case?”

 

* * *

 

 

“Hey, what’s goin’ on? Jack doesn’t usually pull the forces like this unless it’s something big. Is it something big?”

“From what I’ve heard, they’ve found a body out in bum-fuck Virginia. Road crew dug it up, called local PD, PD called us. From what they can make out on the jacket, the logo is definitely WGGK.”

“And? Jesus Jimmy, don’t eat that in the lab I can smell it from here.”

“Hm? Sorry. You’ll see soon enough. They’re shipping the body to our lab. Should be on your slab in oh, say under an hour.”

“Murder-suicide, I’m telling you. Cameraman did it, _hkkkkkr_ , right across her neck, then he gutted her.”

“Jesus, Bev.”

“Am I wrong? I’m not gonna be wrong.”

“You’re talking shit Katz, you don’t have all the details of the case.”

“Maybe not but I followed that story religiously when I was a kid. It was national news when she was murdered, remember Brian? Remember? They only found her severed head and a few entrails.”

“The fact you read that shit when you were a kid is telling me a _lot_ about you right now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“You might be wrong. I think Jack’s pulling out all the resource stops because there’s a connection—”

“To?”

“I’m literally—don’t interrupt me—I’m literally telling you right now. There’s a connection to the current murders. Plus, there’s more.”

“How do you mean more?”

“A camera.... with a tape. They found a tape.”

  

* * *

 

 

“Please. Come in.”

The office belonged to a man of exquisite taste. A few steps into the room and Jack’s loafers immediately sank into the plush corners of a wine-colored baroque rug.

The centerpiece was the desk; a midcentury design in sleek darkwood that offset the tight leather tucking of the chair immaculately centered behind it. The beautiful, classic European decor was from all periods with an underlying strain of clean Danish Modern. The library was a focal point. In addition to the shelves that lined the walls of the floor level, there was an entire second level balcony library upon which Jack could see no portion of the shelf bare.

If ‘quaint’ described Will Graham’s home life, ‘opulent’ seemed the appropriate manner in which to define the current space he occupied, belonging to psychiatrist Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It was certainly the office of an intellectual and comfortably warm as well, a welcome reprieve from the chill outside. Jack shouldered off his coat, and draped it over his arm as he entered.

“I apologize for making you wait,” Hannibal begins, even as Jack raises his hands in understanding placation. “I don’t suppose you might present that credential once more?”

Jack smiles, pushing a hand into his inner-pocket and withdrawing his badge and presenting. “Not at all, Doctor.” Hannibal leans in, scrutinizing, his expression tight with a flat smile. “Thank you,” he says, drawing back and circling to his desk. “How might I help you, Agent Crawford? You mentioned in the hallway this visit is in fact about me and not any of my patients.”

“Jack, please,” the agent insists, tucking his badge into his pocket once again. “And yes, this would be about you. No need to worry about breaking doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“I needn’t worry, as I would not breach such a relationship. Might I ask how this is all about me?”

“You can ask. But I do need to ask you a few questions first,” Jack stops, motioning his head to the door with a small smile. “Are you, uh, expecting another patient?”

“We’re all alone.”

The tone, despite Hannibal’s small smile, is faintly ominous, but Jack eases his way through the office, coming upon the elegant desk. On its surface are several pages of thick parchment, each with various sketches of landscapes and buildings, using pencil and charcoal. Raising an impressed eyebrow, Jack jerks his chin towards the drawings.

“Are these yours, Doctor?”

Hannibal follows the Agent’s gaze, nodding. “Yes. These,” he indicates. “Several institutions I've visited throughout the years.” At his motion, Hannibal slowly gathers a thick pencil from his desk, pressing a thumb to its tip as if testing its sharpness in an idle, casual movement. Jack leans further down, admiring the work.

“The detail is incredible. I’ve heard your drawings got you an internship at John Hopkins.”

Hannibal’s eyes narrow, even as his pupils dilate. Setting his jaw, he lifts his chin. “I’m beginning to suspect you are investigating me, Agent Crawford.”

“How many languages do you speak, Doctor?”

Hannibal frowns, clearly caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?”

“Languages, Doctor Lecter. You were referred to me by Alana Bloom in the psychology department at Georgetown. She mentioned your love of language and your skillset.”

“Ah,” he smiles. Fiddling with his pencil, he drops it back on the desk and makes his way further into the center of the room. “Dr. Bloom is an exceptional psychiatrist. I mentored her during her residency at John Hopkins. More upon your question, outside of English? I speak several European languages, with a variety of fluency.”

“As Dr. Bloom told me. More to the point, Doctor, I find myself quite hopeful that you are able, and willing, to aid us in a translation along with assistance in a psychological profile.”

“A translation?”

“An audio recording of a murder, only recently found. FBI translators narrowed it to a Baltic dialect, with hints of Lithuanian, although our own staff are unable to properly translate without sending it to an outside party. I thought coming to you would be much quicker. You are Lithuanian, aren’t you Doctor?”

“Indeed. I am happy to provide translation services if it might aid in an investigation of a murder, as well as provide assistance on a psychological profile. The fact I am familiar with such a rare dialect, is a happy coincidence, I must say.”

“I feel the same, Doctor Lecter. I most certainly feel the same.”


	3. Bodies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly reminder that this fic is tagged with darker warnings~ Please re-read tags if you must.

**Chapter Two: Bodies**

** **

“You shouldn’t have gone to Will at his home, Jack. I didn’t mention where he lived for you to do a surprise house call. You should have just phoned.”

“It was fine, Dr. Bloom. I was quick, and cordial. As was he. Although I don’t know if his dogs appreciated the unexpected visit.”

“No, they probably didn’t. He has many, as you might have seen. He takes in strays and—“

“Does that tell you a lot about Graham, Dr. Bloom? I would imagine it’s quite an insight on how he copes emotionally. How he invests his spare time.”

“I’ve already told you I am not doing a study on him. So no, I’m not going to answer that, Jack.”

“Fair enough. You two are friends, clearly. Seems a shame not to take advantage, academically speaking.”

“Anything scholarly on Will Graham would be published posthumously.”

“Hm. Well, he likes you. He doesn’t think you run any mind games on him.”

“That's because I don't. Jack... Don’t put him out there. Will Graham deals with huge amounts of fear—”

“It comes with an active imagination, one would think.”

“It’s the price of _his_ imagination.”

“Alana, I would never put Will out there if I feel I couldn’t cover him. I took the extra step of your advice and have brought in Dr. Lecter to aid not only in this investigation per your consult, but as an observer to Will’s mental state.”

“That is _not_ why I recommended Hannibal—“

“Alana, it’s done.”

“Damnit, Jack. You… Fine. Promise me something. Don’t let him get too close.

“He won’t get too close. I can promise you that.”

 

* * *

  

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”

Jack winces at Hannibal’s question, leaning back in his chair, as Will Graham unapologetically continues avoiding any and all eye contact, pacing along a wall of Jack’s office, eyes instead flicking to the diplomas and thick novels along the bookcases. Hannibal stands tall, observing Will with a subtle tilt of his head, hands caught behind his back. His body is wholly open, where Will immediately begins to snap shut, on alert. Jack sighs to himself, deciding to watch this play out.

“Eyes are distracting. You see too much,” Will starts. “And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking those whites are really white with light or aren’t they? Is it a burst vein? Hepatitis? So, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible.” Will’s tone is brisk, bordering on sharp. “Jack, what is he doing here?”

“As I’ve already introduced, this is Dr. Lecter, our translator—“ Jack says quite calmly, even as Will snorts at this.

“Sure. Among other things.”

Hannibal smiles. “I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”

Will stops pacing and wheels, eyes downcast but edging on contact. “Please don’t psychoanalyze me, Doctor. You wouldn’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”

“I’m sorry, Will. Observing is what we do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

“Will, Dr. Lecter is not here for you,” Jack’s lie rolls comfortably off his tongue and he watches the curious head tilt from Hannibal. Thankfully, the doctor doesn’t comment. He continues, “I’m hoping Dr. Lecter might aid in a psychological profile of the mass murderer.”

“Mass murderer?” Will sounds slightly affronted and Hannibal edges closer, intrigued.  “That’s a little extreme, Jack. By FBI definition, you’re wrong.”  
  
“I’m afraid Will is correct, Jack. Mass murder typically occurs in a single location where one or more people are killed by several others. I believe this particular murderer aligns more with serial killers. By FBI definition.”

Jack heaves a sigh, certainly feeling the pinch of two-vs-one. “Yes, alright.” He checks his watch, and motions to his office door. “I believe Katz should be here with the restored tape with Zeller. We’ve much to discuss.”

* * *

 

“Everyone out. Out!” Jack boomed, waving his arms to spook the onlookers who quickly bustled out of the forensic room. “Not you, Price, Katz. Zeller! Get back in here.”

“Right,” Bev shuffled back, watching as the final person exiting closed the door, throwing a disappointed look over their shoulder. “Quite the crowd looking to see this tape, Jack.”

“I’m sure. I’ve listened to it, along with two audio-techs and a translator, and its contents do not leave this room, understand? Jimmy, you’re new to this case, so listen up. The translator was not able to decipher what exactly was being said. I have Dr. Hannibal Lecter here, hoping he’ll—“

“Holy shit, you’re Will Graham.”

Jack stops and stares at the speaker, Bev Katz, incredulously as she points to Will.

“Uhm—“

She continues, voice wavering on excitement, completely ignoring the others. “You wrote the standard monograph on time of death by insect activity. Jack, what’s he doing here? He isn’t real FBI.”

“I’m a special investigator,” Will says defensively, tone uncomfortable. He glances to Jack, beseechingly.

“Bev, enough. Will is here on my invite. Along with Dr. Lecter. Now, have you got the tape?”

Beverly collects herself. “Yeah. Glad we had a VCR player in this building. We had to pull it up from archives.”

“A VHS tape?” Hannibal asks, interest piqued although his tone is casual. “I thought you mentioned audio only.”

“You’ll see,” Jack says, watching as Bev pushes the tape in the slot.

“I examined the camera,” Jimmy begins as the tape began to play. “Banged up pretty badly. The cassette itself was damaged but luckily, by some miracle, our guys were able to restore the actual tape itself onto a new viewable cassette. Amazing really. They can convert it to DVD, but this is slightly quicker at the moment.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah. A few latent fingerprints on the camera. Nora Hubbard and Joseph Benning.”

“Our vics.”

“Yep.”

The television flickers as the tape begins properly and the room falls silent.

There’s long extended lateral pans of a grey two-story building before moving over to an empty country road. The sound itself is eerily quiet as snow falls almost silently through the shot. The tape cuts, to more extended pans of the same building, at a different angle and now in evening, the sun setting in the distance. Jimmy folds his arms and snorts.

“What is this? What exactly were they reporting on?”

“Oh,” Bev glances up from the screen. “They were working on a report on the customer complaints at the Department of Energy. It wasn’t exactly huge news or anything terribly exciting, just a secondary story, but their van was found only a few miles from it.”

“The tape found is considered B-roll,” Jack explains. “General footage to be stitched into the editing of their report for the news station. There might be other tapes of Nora Hubbard speaking, doing actual reporting, but this was all that was found. There’s nothing of note other than shots of the building and surrounding roads. Bev, fast forward, get to the thirty-six mark, when the screen goes black. Everybody, listen.”

“What, why’s the screen black? I thought—“

“We believe the camera was turned on suddenly leaving no time to take the lens cap off. It’s audio only at that point.”

Bev nodded and played with the fast-forward control, eyeing the built-in tape counter as the machine squealed. At the thirty-six minute mark, she stopped the racing tape and depressed the ‘play’ button just as the screen went blank.

Jack gestured for them to be patient. “Just listen.”

Something sounded loudly, booming and ugly, as if a distant explosion had taken place. The camera’s omnidirectional microphone might have been small, but there was no mistaking a sharp and prolonged _crruuump_ from the speaker, as if metal was being crumpled and split. A pounding noise followed the explosion. There is screaming—a woman, hysterical—from very close. Then echoes of confusion of equipment being tipped over, of glass shattering and the camera being hit or thrown against something hard.

A violent gurgling rose above the general cacophony, then a loud hiss like an angry steam boiler starting up. A man raged in the distance, in a language that had the entire room turning to Hannibal.

The doctor held a finger up to his lips as if to hush the room but made no other move, clearly listening, his eyes closing. Everyone turned back to watch the roll spin, not wishing to disrupt whatever information the man was clearly gathering.

Something went _thud_ and the volume intensified, as if the camera had been thrown violently once again. Then a piercing screech sounded throughout the room that made the hair on Jack’s neck stand erect.

“Jesus—!” Jimmy shouted out of impulse, before he immediately quieted himself.

The woman’s screams came to a head, distant now but still just as haunting and terrified. The unmistakable sound of a gun being fired echoed through the audio, followed by the execrable screeching, louder now, mixed with the cries of the woman.

The man now also began to scream, in no language other than shouts of sheer horror. Just as quickly, his voice evolved into something deeper, a mutated assemblage of voices as the woman began to hyperventilate. The screechings, not unlike an unholy howl of a giant wolf, got louder and louder, as if approaching closer to the camera.

Jack noted the grim expressions of those gathered around him. He derived no satisfaction from the effect the tape had on them. Soon, all sound stopped. The tape had come to its end. He reached and switched off the VCR and regarded his team in silence.

“Is that it?” Will asked softly, his color slightly pale.

“Yes,” Jack replied. “What do you all make of it?”

“Could be anything… Some wild animal?” Bev began, crossing her arms and tucking her hands under, as if fending off a chill. “And that explosion… The helicopter, you think? It must be. It sounded like multiple ones, like a secondary explosion.”

“Whoa what? Helicopter?” Price looked up, startled. “What’re you talking about? I thought it was a news van.”

“Sorry, I forget you’re new to the case. The vics had the news van, which belonged to WGGK. A helicopter was found crashed near the site. Just a small, private use chopper, from what the investigators at the time said.”

“How have I not heard of this?”

“Well, it was like the 70’s, for one, and second, it _was_ national news, as I’ve mentioned. I followed it—“

“Religiously, yeah, we know. Who owned the chopper?”

“Nobody. It had absolutely no records. Burned too badly, no prints, papers, nothing, and never reported stolen and no one came forward claiming it. All that was left was the framework.”

“And no pilot?”

“And no pilot. Although I’m betting the man yelling is the pilot. I would imagine he’s the one firing so the rifle found would belong to him. Big game hunting in Virginia isn’t unusual, feral hogs have always been a problem, and hunting from helicopter most definitely a thing, although I’m not sure of its legalities.” Bev Katz turned and nodded to Hannibal. “Dr. Lecter, you’re the translator, what was he saying?”

Hannibal took a sigh and set his jaw, as if under deep contemplation. “It is Lithuanian, yes,” he started slowly. “But I’m afraid what the man was shouting… I’m not sure if it entirely will make sense or be of help.”

“Please, Doctor,” Jack implored. “The smallest bit of insight won’t hurt this case.”

“What the man was saying, roughly, translates to ‘Get away. Get away from that thing. It’s some sort of imitation. It isn’t real. Get away... Get away’.”

“’It isn’t real’, are you sure? That’s… quite an odd statement,” Bev asked with a frown, looking to the team. “I mean, it has to be an animal, doesn’t it? What can make a sound like that? Maybe Nora and Joe were attacked after crashing their news van, and a Lithuanian, I don’t know, hunter, hunting from his private use chopper, stopped to help and couldn’t land properly? Crashed instead?”

“Zeller,” at his name, Brian’s head snapped up from his deep thought.

“Yeah, Jack?”

“Tell the team your findings.”

Brian hesitated. “I—“ he paused and looked to Jack. “I think they need to see.”

With a nod, Jack Crawford agreed.

Without a word, Brian Zeller exited, the others trailing curiously behind him.

The surgical table gleamed in the middle of Zeller’s sterile, sealed off morgue. Will and Hannibal went to the corner, a heavy-duty plastic tarp between them with a large, bulging shape beneath it. Brian walked over on slow feet before he lifted the sheet off.

The mess on the table had once been a man. Having been decades, the rot was incredible, charred skin sloughing off and bones poking through. Jimmy brought a sleeve to his nose to cover the intense smell even as the shock of what he saw rippled through him. The condition of the body was not what drew the instant attention of the onlookers.

What remained of the trousers and boots were ripped lengthwise and split into long shreds, as though the legs and feet they normally concealed had suddenly grown five sizes too large for them and had burst the seams from within. The upper torso was an almost unrecognizable gnarly mass indistinctly formed into protoplasmic mush.

There were no visible arms; just lumps of dark goo and flesh flanking the chest region, which was concave, as if entirely gutted out. The head was oddly disfigured, both eyes missing, and larger than normal. Its location was more disconcerting than its appearance. It seemed to be growing out of the stomach, its fleshy neck slit open like a thin smile. There was nothing atop the shoulders, or where the shoulders ought to have been. Several open wounds littered its flesh, as if from multiple bites and cuts.

Peculiar appendages that resembled loose tendons were wrapped around the carcass like white rope. The ends stuck out to the sides at odd angles, stiff and hard as plastic. They reminded Jack of vines climbing the walls of his home save for their color. One circled repeatedly around the body’s left leg like the striping of a barber’s pole. Another wrapped securely around the misplaced skull.

Will turned away immediately, closing his eyes from the sight. Hannibal turned to watch his expression, eyeing him carefully. None of them it seemed, save for Doctor Lecter, were unaffected by the viscous grotesquerie.

“I don’t know what to say,” Jimmy said with a shake of his head. “Clearly the body has been burned but… bodies don’t _melt_ like this.”

“You’re saying this is Joseph Benning?” Hannibal asked, turning to Jack. “The cameraman?”

“Uhm no,” Brian interrupted, motioning toward the far end of the room. “Joseph Benning I have over there. Black male, six-two, one-eighty, red WGGK parka—“

“You found two bodies in the same location?” Jimmy sounded surprised by this, even as Jack nodded solemnly.

“We disclosed the finding of Joseph Benning, yes. As you can imagine, we are not yet disclosing to the public the findings of _this_ particular body.”

“Is Joseph Benning… The body… is it normal?” Will asked slowly, edging himself closer, if not warily, to the table.

“Yes, if by normal you don’t mean,” Zeller motioned to the fleshy mass. “Then yeah. His COD is a single gunshot to the chest. All appendages attached, head in its normal place and no other… abnormalities. He died instantly.”

“No shit,” Bev said quietly, craning her head to glance at the sheeted body of Joseph Benning. “These bodies were found near each other? I mean, is this … man… is this body the Lithuanian?”

Brian nodded. “I believe so. They found the camera, these two bodies, and a rifle, all in the same location, underground. The news van was badly damaged, and none of the equipment or tapes inside were recoverable, which is in the report from the 1970’s.”

“Right. Buried. Which means these heavy burns most likely didn’t come from the initial helicopter crash. He was up. Standing. Moving around. Shooting at someone, well after the crash.”

“Yeah, which means... You tell me Bev, an animal just can’t do this… Burn a body and think to hide the evidence? The only thing they ever found was the wrecked news van and the helicopter. An animal? I don’t think so.”

“And Nora Hubbard’s head. Don’t forget that.”

“Agent Crawford,” Hannibal interrupted. “Might I ask what evidence you do have? I believe in our earlier conversations, you mentioned a tie-in with a current series of murders. I fail to see how a several decades old case like this could relate? I’m afraid I don’t see a connection.”

“The way this,” Jack raised a hand to the table. “Particular body is presented. Bev, what can you see, anything unusual?”

“Jesus fuck, besides literally _everything_?”

“In how it relates to the current murders.” Jack said patiently.

Bev sighed and leaned in, taking a single step forward. “Okay. Burned, obviously. And the eyes. Or, lack thereof. And, oh. _Oh_. The organs.”

Brian nodded. “I haven’t run a proper autopsy but preliminary findings are… they’re missing.”

“What, all of them?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, technically not the skin or brain for this body… but all other major internal organs. Lungs, liver, spleen, heart…”

“So? Remember you guys found this out in bum-fuck Virginia, buried in a field. There are scavenger animals—”

“No. No, no…” Bev shook her head, bravely taking another step until her hip touched the edge of the table. A light of understanding gleamed in her eye. “There are twelve victims we’ve found so far on this case. There’s no connections. Male or female, young or old, various occupations, spanning years, but starting only within the last few years. It doesn’t seem to matter other than they all live within two or three states of each other. But the organs... A single slit to the throat as cause of death and the organs are all missing, along with the eyes. _Everything_ carved out, clean. Before being burned.”

“Why? What does this thing do with them?”

“It’s not a creature, Jimmy, although we believe they are eaten,” Bev said with a sigh. “Out of all of our vics, we’ve found two where it seems the perp was interrupted. We’ve found both a raw lung and kidney at two separate scenes with a bite taken out of it near the charred bodies.”

“A _bite_.”

“Human. We took a mold but with no suspects, we have nothing to compare it against. Our murderer is definitely human, Price. Don’t get all ‘Mulder’ on me.”

“Hey—“

“Yes, well,” Jack interrupted with a clear of his throat. “It means the person who has been doing this, has been doing so for decades, which is new information to us, as our first victim we found initially is from 2002. It alters our initial profile significantly, which is where you two, Will and Dr. Lecter, come in. There is a particular way these organs were harvested. They end the life with a cut to the throat, then harvest the organs with care, before lighting the victim’s body on fire. And it started here, with Nora Hubbard and Joseph Benning. We’re here to find out why, and who.”

“So what the hell noises were on that tape? And what the fuck happened to the Lithuanian man? Why take the organs out of _this_ one and burn it, and then leave Joseph Benning’s body intact and unburnt?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. “Maybe he was full.”

Will turned to glance at Hannibal, who gave him a wry smile, as if amused.

 

* * *

 

 

“It’s curious, isn’t it?” Bev asked, shutting her locker door and shrugging on her coat.

Brian grimaced. “I don’t know. Never seen anything like this. Hope to never again. All the other bodies found so far, didn’t have this level of deterioration.” _Mutation_ sounded more appropriate, but he kept that particular word back in his throat.

“And you get to do a proper examination. Your department, your autopsy,” Bev snatched her backpack. Noting the none-too-thrilled expression, she sighed, “Look, this is all fucked up, but think of it as a specimen, not as a person. Who knows, this could be publishable Brian.”

“We’ll see Bev. I think our concern should be focused on whoever is doing this.”

“And publish later,” Bev said with a wink. Brian smiled grimly and nodded.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Have a g’night.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you too.”

He didn’t think it would be a good night, not by a longshot. He scrubbed up, pulling on long plastic gloves and booties, he made his way back into the morgue.

His lab was well equipped, something he would have drooled over and could only dream of in college. Glass tubes and beakers gleamed beneath bright fluorescents. The steel sink shone argent. Even the floor was spotless.

“Okay,” he gave himself a nod, preparing himself mentally for some meat work. He started his way to the cold chamber, and pulled the body out on its slab once again. It was the same, fleshy mass but only firmer now, due to the drop in temperature.

Brian picked up his trauma sheers, ready to begin to cut along the torn and tattered clothing, when a goo-like morass of chest area began to leak, a slick, black fluid beginning to ebb from its cuts. It rolled thickly and Brian stared.

Sickened, but fascinated, Brian poked at the tendonlike growths and the asphaltic goo. Some of the liquid came away on his fingers. It had the tenacity of black glue. He stepped back, examining his gloved hand, watching the substance glisten. It began to tingle, as if seeping through his glove.

“What the hell…” he murmured, wincing, when something behind him clattered, like metal falling and scattering across the floor.

“Fuck!” Brian jumped, hand over his heart as he turned. Various metal tools spun across the floor, knocked over from the table. Brian stared at the tools, before bring his eyes up to a dog.

A _dog_.

“What the fucking—“ Brian whipped his gaze to the unlatched, partly open door to the morgue, and back to the dog. It erred on the smaller side and was collarless, and it’s large, bushy yellow tail wagged once, as if pensive.

“What’re you…Oh c’mon, no no nope…” Zeller took a step back, feeling his adrenaline spike with irritation. He turned, making his way to the office phone, brain struggling to recall the security desk extension. “Who brings their God damn dog—“

Something made a noise behind him, and it could not have possibly been the dog. He’d never heard anything quite like that noise. It was a crackling, a snapping or something that was almost like wood or plastic burning and popping. Brian turned.

The dog’s fur stuck straight up like the quills of a porcupine. As he stared it snarled, a throaty, undoglike sound. It took a step and its eyes rolled back like a shark. Its skin was splitting, the mouth and muzzle ripping open as something inside struggled to emerge, like a butterfly bursting from its cocoon. White fangs ripped through black gums and extended outward, as if reaching.

Brian Zeller stumbled back, startled and terrified beyond belief in one swift surge. His legs almost failed him as he turned, and the moment his eyes left the creature, a sharp snap circled his calf with a sting, and pulled.

Wildly, Brian curled himself and fisted the sheers in his hand and flailed, striking desperately. The animal howled in pain, making a sound no dog had ever made, a high-pitched screech that echoed through the morgue. He flailed again, even as the thing continued to pull, a thick and angry coil gripping tighter around his leg, another around his arm and one more, around his neck.

It squeezed, and squeezed and squeezed as Brian Zeller went under, lungs burning, well before a sharp tendril slit across his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next - Chapter Four: Tags
> 
> Will and Hannibal stuff next ^^;


	4. Tags

**Chapter Four: Tag**

** **

It had been years since Will had awoken to the sound of a proper knock on his front door. He jolted, feet kicking a pillow to the floor. Blearily, he glanced at his clock, frowning. Nearing ten A.M. Will groaned, body aching, just as another knock rapped against his house. He sat up, and glared across the room, to the heap of dogs who lounged about the space heater, oblivious.

“Gettin’ lazy,” he muttered as he sat up. Shuffling, he snatched a robe off a chair and wrapped it around his frame. He caught a glance at the side window to watch snow falling heavily but silently outside. It was truly that time of year, once again.

Opening the front door, Will frowned at his sudden guest. Hannibal Lecter stood just outside, holding two cups, and a thermos food storage bag in his hands. The man gave a nod, smile pleasant.

“Good morning Will. May I come in?”

Will stared, before glancing just beyond the man’s shoulder, searching.

“Where Crawford?”

“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today.” Hannibal paused, waiting for an invitation that perhaps would never come on its own. “May I come in?”

“Uh…Oh. Yeah. Yeah sure,” Will stood back, still slightly sleep startled and feeling unpleasantly exposed.

As Hannibal strode by Will he stopped suddenly. The doctor turned his head. “Are we alone?” He asked quietly.

“Alone?” Will frowned, glancing to his dogs. “Just you, me, and them. My dogs.”

“Hm.” Hannibal continued on, giving a hard glance to Will as he entered the living room. Will snorted, confused but deciding to remain quiet on the matter.

The dogs wrestled from their own sleep, tentative tails wagging as they stood, yawned and stretched.

“Sorry,” he closed the front door as Hannibal set down his cups and thermos bag and began to remove his winter coat. “They uhm, they usually wake me up before I have visitors get to the front door.”

“Is that so?” Hannibal extended the back of his gloved hand to an especially curious Brooklyn. The collie mix sniffed cautiously before giving a small tail wag, before continuing his way to the water dish in the kitchen.

Will raised an eyebrow. “That’s… They don’t usually like unknown company.”

“Dogs are sensitive and loyal creatures. I might assume that behavior aligns with the preference of their master?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me again, Doctor?”

“Not at all. A mere question.” After a beat, Hannibal raised the thermos in his hand. “Breakfast?”

Will nodded vaguely and motioned to the kitchen. The doctor set to work immediately as Will sat himself awkwardly, merely watching as the man swept comfortably around his kitchen. It felt like mere seconds before the man had found his dish sets and cutlery, presenting breakfast for two on top of place settings. Fresh coffee brewed on the counter top.

“I’m very careful about what I put into my body. Which means I end up preparing most meals myself. A little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage.”

Will nodded, taking a bite and savoring. “It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Hannibal said graciously, a small smile splitting across his face. He seated himself, adjusting a napkin over his lap. “I would apologize for my analytical ambush but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

“Just keep it professional.”

“Or, we could socialize like adults. God forbid we become friendly.”

Will kept his eyes focused on his plate, giving a small shrug, indifferent. “I don’t find you that interesting.”

Hannibal’s small smile remained. “You will.”

 “So what is this about ‘adventure’,” Will asked suddenly, resting his fork again his plate. “As far as I’m aware, half of your business with this investigation is concluded.”

“Indeed, yes. The other half is to aid in a profile of the perpetrator.”

“So, what are your findings so far, Doctor Lecter? The recording. The bodies. Quite a lot of information to take in and parse through.”

“It is,” Hannibal nodded, eyes drifting to the snow outside. “I find myself especially drawn to the translation. ‘Some kind of imitation.’ Agent Crawford tells me you have a knack for finding monsters.”

“That’s a superstition. What do you think the man meant by saying that? I mean, literally meant.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, and isn’t it so curious? And you Will? What are your initial impressions?”

“That whoever is doing this has been doing so for decades, obviously. Not something that started only a few years ago as was originally thought.”

“So we must ask ourselves, why, as far as we know, such a murder back then, and several murders only now? Why the gap?”

“Maybe we haven’t found them all yet,” Will said with a shrug, taking another bite of meat.

“It might imply he is getting more careless, not smarter, as time wears on.”

“I mean, it’s possible…”

“Will…Do you recall what Beverly Katz said?”

Will frowned. “She said a lot of things. Do you mean about the wild animal theory?”

“No,” Hannibal shook his head. “On the journalists. Do you recall what she said on why they were in that particular part of Virginia?”

“They were doing some second-tier story –“

“The Department of Energy, yes. Customer complaints, specifically.”

“Yeah,” said Will slowly. “So?”

“This particular Department of Energy belonged to a particular subset, and therefore had no customers. They were research funded only. Would it surprise you to learn that that facility is now closed?”

Will said nothing to any of this. Hannibal continued.

“It closed precisely forty-eight hours after the head of Ms. Hubbard was found. Its official reason; an accident to the building that deemed it inoperable.”

“Why… would you look into that?” Will asked warily, crossing his leg over his knee, leaning forward. “You’re meant to be a translator, a psychological profiler, not…” Will drifted off, rubbing his eyes. “Okay. Okay, fine. It closed after an accident. What was the accident?”

“Officially? Arson.”

“Arson.”

“Yes.”

“And… unofficially?”

“Well, I believe that is where our ‘adventure’ might begin.”

“You want to what, go there?” Will laughed, bringing a hand up to rub his neck as he shook his head, incredulous. “No. No, Hannibal, this is circumstantial, at best.”

“Arson, Will. Can you imagine the coincidence between that, and the bodies? Especially strange since it appears the building, while officially abandoned, is still running.”

Will paused, startled. Slowly, he lowered his fork. “How… how do you mean ‘still running’?”

“It seems the facility still has some degree of electrical power coming into it at least according to recent utility usage reports.”

“How do you know of this?”

“A few simple phone calls and a cursory search online. The building itself is closed, abandoned to the wayside off the beaten path. But somehow… still running, under an account name of Žydrūnas Mekas. Paid on time, every single month, for the past several decades.”

Will considered, drumming fingers on the table. “That’s—“

“A traditionally Lithuanian name, yes.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Not a Lithuanian name, but—“

“Okay. Let’s … yeah. It might be circumstantial but, it’s something. More than what we have, at the moment. Lemme just put the dogs out. Give me a minute.”

“Of course.”

Hannibal cleaned up the breakfast as Will changed in the other room. He eyed the younger man as he shrugged on his coat and shoved on his boots. “C’mon, Buster, Zoe… Outside. C’mon.”

Hannibal placed cups into the sink, right before his mobile phone rang.

He paused, eyeing Will through the frosted glass, watching him walk out into the yard. Thumbing his screen, he answered.

“Hello Agent Crawford.”

_“Hannibal, is Will with you?”_

At the tone, Hannibal flicked his gaze outside, before pacing further into the house. “Jack, you sound alarmed. Is everything alright?”

_“I’ve been pulled from court. Something has happened at the lab. Dr. Zeller, he’s… Are you with Will? You were meant to meet—“_

“I am enroute to his residence,” Hannibal replied casually. “What of Dr. Zeller?”

“ _They’ve found his body. It’s…I-I need both of you here stat, Dr. Lecter. And I mean_ now _.”_

“Of course Jack. I’ll notify Will immediately upon my arrival.”

With no ceremony, the phone disconnected. Hannibal looked to his phone, tapping its corner, thinking.

“Did someone call?” The door whisked opened, and Will eyed the mobile in Hannibal’s hand.  He gave an absentminded pat to a dog as he shooed them through the front door.

Hannibal cleared his throat. “An unknown number, I had it ring through to voicemail.” He pocketed his cell, making his way to the front door. “Now, your vehicle, or mine?”

 

* * *

 

 

They drove. Miles upon miles of backroads, through varying degrees of slush and snow. Further and further in, the other vehicles on the road grew more and more sparse. They navigated themselves through an especially narrow and private road. Will eyed Hannibal carefully. In the distance, a building peaked just over a hill.

“This hasn’t been plowed, no one ever makes it up here. Your car can’t make that,” Will shook his head. “No way.”

Hannibal unlatched the driver’s side door. “Then we walk.”

Will and Hannibal slogged toward the rectangular structure for several hundred yards. A large, gunmetal-gray building loomed directly ahead. As they got closer, it became apparent several of the lower exterior windows were cracked or shattered all together. A sign had been beaten by the weather but still stood, its foundation embedded in ice as solid as stone. It shifted only slightly in the wind. It read: VIRGINIA DEPARTMENT OF ENERGY – MINES AND MINERALS

The snow was slowly building, reaching now almost a foot in height. As they stomped up the steps of the front doors, Will’s feet crunched with the sound of glass. They shone like diamonds buried in the snow.

“No one ever comes here,” Will started, pushing up his glasses, dusting off small flakes with gloved fingers. He motioned, “Can’t even see a parking lot. Just snow.”

“Might you knock, or shall I?” Hannibal asked with a tilt of his head and a small smile. 

“Funny.” Will reached the two large, brass handles of the doors. He gripped and pulled, hearing heavy rattles with each tug beyond the door. “Chained off.”

Hannibal lifted his chin at the door. “Chained from the inside?”

“Yeah. Yeah, strange, right?” Will brought a hand to the sill of a nearby window, attempting to peer inside.

Hannibal narrowed his eyes. “The glass is shattered, but all those bars make it impossible to see inside, much less pass through them.”

“It’s a prison. Well, like a prison.”

“It begs the question; were they looking to keep the public out, or keep something private in, when they shuttered these doors?”

“Well, I’m hoping after all these decades, the latter might not be the case.”

 Hannibal regarded Will but said nothing.

“Here,” Will swooped to the left, motioning. “There’s a larger window here to the side.”

Hannibal followed Will’s hand, looking to window tucked behind a naked tree. Its own bars were bent outward, and already, Will was gripping and pulling. “It’s loose,” he gave a clear shaking of the metal. “If we pry it, we can get inside.”

Hannibal looked skyward, as if admiring the sturdy structure. “And for a warrant?”

“I’ve got probable cause, and it’s… we’re investigating... just… Look just help me with this, alright? This was your idea in the first place.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Alright.”

With several hard yanks, the old rivets popped and the bars pulled free. Will chucked it to the snow, and climbed inside, pulling himself over the sill.

Hannibal followed, and when his feet hit the floor and he glanced about the interior, eyes adjusting to the lack of harsh, sun-winter light, he could say nothing. He could only stare.

It was not what they had expected. It was total devastation. Before them were blackened materials, charred or melted, cluttering nearly all space. Books, tires, furniture; anything that would burn had been heaped together and clearly set on fire. The concrete of the building had held its internal structure, but black scorches ran up its walls. Discernible among the rest of the unorganized kindling were the charred remains of several dogs, blackened skulls poking through wood. Mounds of black goo that might have been asphalt or roofing sealant had oozed and pooled into large puddles, frozen like ice along the flooring. Large patches of brown blood splattered against frosted glass. 

A large gasoline drum lay on its end nearby, its cap missing. A smaller fuel oil drum squatted off to one side. Will checked the small container first, then the larger. The smaller drum held old oil, its cap secure, but the larger container was bone dry.

He closed his eyes and took a breath, before turning his head to Hannibal. They exchanged a look. The doctor’s face was pale, and Will wasn’t sure if it was just the cold.

“How has this been here this whole time, unnoticed?” Hannibal asked, taking a step toward the mounds. “Surely someone must have—“

“Don’t touch anything,” Will’s tone was sharp as he took a step back, shaking his head. He pulled out his gun, on alert, sliding it easily out of its holster. The doctor glanced abruptly at it, but made no objection to its presence although his look was clearly questioning. “It’s evidence. All of this is evidence,” he continued quietly, voice echoing through the room. Hannibal gave a single nod.

Will took steps further into the building, beyond its lobby, Hannibal behind him. Making their way through several doors and hallways, their progress was slow because of the burned debris that filled each area. Overturned chairs, chests of equipment, loose wires and canisters of gas and liquid made for treacherous walking. Once Will nearly went over on his face when his feet got tangled in an exploded television set.

Testing his luck, Will flicked on a set of switches on the wall, but all interior lights had been burnt out or broken. It was coldly, unexpectedly dark.

Impossibly, the temperature seemed to dip further and further with each step they took. The air became crisper.

“It’s almost as if the building has a temperature setting,” Hannibal commented, observing Will. “It seems to be in a perpetually frozen state. Like a meat locker.”

Pitching now into complete darkness, Will took out his cell phone and pressed its flashlight app. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s much colder inside here than anything outside.”

“Frozen for nearly forty-years? That would explain the continuous, steady drawing of power.” Hannibal mused again, eyeing Will’s gun carefully. “Do you believe some thing is here?” He asked in a gently patient tone. Will snorted.

“Would you like to take the chance?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well then okay.”

Was that the wind which whispered in his ear? Will turned to Hannibal, glancing to his left.

“You hear that?”

“Yes,” Hannibal nodded, eyes drifting down a hall. “Mechanical, possibly.”

They followed the faint noise. As they continued down the corridor, the noise morphed into a soft hiss. As they proceeded, it became recognizable as a high-pitched, static noise. There was a door blocking the end. The steady sputtering came from the other side.

Hannibal reached into his pocket, retrieving his own mobile phone. Flicking on its flashlight, he glanced at its screen. “No signal.”

“Yeah, I know. Figures.”

Hannibal lifted his light to the wood of the door. Something had nearly taken it apart. An axe protruded from the center of a sign which hung from the door, its head buried deeply.

Will holstered his gun, grabbed hold with both hands, and yanked until it came loose. The cutting edge was stained black. He studied it briefly, looking to Hannibal for confirmation.

Hannibal said nothing, which was confirmation enough for Will. There wasn’t much blood on the axe and what remained was frozen to a maroon crust.

Hannibal motioned to the sign. “It’s Lithuanian.”

“For?”

Hannibal hesitated. “Live animals.”

Putting down the axe Will pulled out his gun, holding it a little tighter as he tried the doorknob. It rotated and the door opened inward, but halted after moving only a few inches. Will put his shoulder against it and shoved, but it refused to budge further.

“Blocked from the other side,” he said quietly. He leaned against it once more and shoved. It creaked.

“I think it moved a little. Give me a hand.”

Hannibal pocketed his mobile and faced Will. Leaning against the door, their eyes met. They pushed. The frozen floor of the passageway gave poor purchase to their boots. But by alternately hammering and pressing hard they managed to edge the door inward an inch at a time.

Eventually they’d widened it enough for Hannibal to glance inside the room. Retrieving his mobile, he directed its beam inward. The static rattling was loud now.

“What do you see?”

Hannibal pulled back. “Cages.”

Will stared, mouth pressing firmly closed. He wedged himself into the opening, and pushed. The door gave another couple of inches and allowed him to slip inside. Behind him, he heard Hannibal shove and enter as well.

Inside were dozens of steel-wire cages, stacked three high, running along each wall of the room. Will’s heart hammered as he turned in a slow circle, barely even able to register their contents. He could scarcely register the room at all. Inside each cage, were small to medium-sized bundles of stiff, frozen fur. Several cages had wires sprung free, as it chewed through, but not large enough for any escape.

Dogs. So many dead dogs. Will wasn’t sure he could bear to count.

“It stopped when we entered.”

Will glanced briefly to Hannibal, not questioning the man on his statement, understanding completely. The rattling sound had entirely ceased, leaving them in total silence save for their own breathing.

A Ganz lantern rested on its side atop a table nearest the door. Hannibal approached, eyeing it as well as the thick, long-stemmed wind resistant matches that were next to it. He picked them up, turning over the packet in his fingers.

“Pocket those, just so we know we won’t freeze to death.” Will gave a nod to the gas lantern. “Think it still works?”

“Doubtful. The fuel would have evaporated by now.”

“Hm.” Will approached a cage slowly and Hannibal raised his mobile phone light to guide him. A dirty heap of yellow fur rested, pressed desperately against the door of one cage, its nails ensnared into the grate. It was nothing but skin and bones. Snapped to a wilted ear, a tag pinned into its skin.  Will closed his eyes.

Tags. Everywhere, tags.

“Will—“

“Give me a—“

“ _Will_.”

Hannibal’s insistent, alarmed tone had Will snapping his eyes open. Hannibal motioned with his light and Will’s eyes followed.

In a far, far corner behind a desk was a corpse of two unfortunate dogs and just beyond, a body of a man slumped in a computer chair. But there was something else. The dog bodies were twisted together like Siamese twins, bound in an inextricable embrace.

Both were larger than any in the other cages, perhaps bigger than any dog had any right to be. From hips to chest the main torso was cracked like old plaster and peeling back at the edges. It looked as though something had blown up inside the animal’s gut and was trying to force itself outward.

Odd appendages, a peculiar kind of organic cording, were wrapped around both bodies and connected to the flesh of each. They were uncomfortably like those protruding from the body of the Lithuanian pilot.

A single white tag hung from a tattered ear.

“I believe this is what Nora and Joseph were investigating,” Hannibal said quietly behind him. “Attempting to bring to light these… experiments. Perhaps seeking evidence. Justice.”

“You think they were killed for it?” Will asked, taking another step toward the bodies.

“Perhaps. We don’t know how much they knew, or didn’t know. It could all be unfortunate coincidence.”

“This isn’t exactly the work of The Department of Energy.”

“No. No, not at all. Something went wrong.”

As they approached, Will eyed the dead man in the chair. He was lightly dressed, too lightly for the subfreezing temperature in the room. He was nearly perfectly preserved, frozen stock still and stiff, eyes open and fixed on something beyond their range of vision. His mouth was frozen agape. He seemed to have been petrified in the act of screaming.

Hannibal’s gaze traveled down the stiff body. The throat had been slit from ear to ear.

The doctor tilted his head, eyes narrowed. “He isn’t burned.”

Will paused. “What’s that?”

Hannibal looked to Will, directing his light down onto the dogs twisted on the floor. “These bodies… The others had been burned. The pilot and everything upstairs. These,” Hannibal motioned to the cages. “They starved. But they aren’t malformed. But _these_ ones were locked in here. They—“

For an instant they stood there, frozen by an eerie, building sound, shocked into listening. The static buzzing was back, just in front of them, behind the desk and beneath the dead man. The sound intensified, echoing endlessly through the metal room.

Instinctively, they each took several steps back.

Will cradled his gun, fighting back against proper gun-handling training by having his finger already set on the trigger. His hands shook.

“This was a mistake,” he managed. “I shouldn’t have come here. We shouldn’t have…”

Watching him carefully, Hannibal raised his mobile, directing the flashlight over the desk. Will could scarcely make out the silhouette.

“Time to go,” Hannibal said and when Will peered at him, the man’s eyes were wide and astonished. It looked entirely unwelcome on his face. Hannibal carried himself in such a way, Will would have thought him unflappable. Ludicrously, Will thought of a sarcastic reply, bit it back, and nodded slowly in the affirmative.

Just ahead was a now seething mass of flashing teeth and the beginnings of ferocious snarls. The latter alternated with that high-pitched, bone-chilling screech. The body of the dead man flew across the room with considerable force, smacking and rattling cages and making them both jump. The light moved and the double-headed creature screeched once more, thrashing, as if awakening.

Will squeezed the trigger twice and the thundering sound of the shots echoed throughout the room. Their ears rang as the creature screeched and began to attempt to right itself to stand, spitting furiously. The weapon had done nothing but piss the damn thing off.

Will and Hannibal looked to each other and without a word, nodded. They knew.

It had to burn.

"How do we--"

Will shushed him immediately and Hannibal fell silent. They backpedaled, heading toward the door on quiet but swift feet. Will took a step, slipping through its narrow doorway and into the safety of the hallway. The creature now stood, a monstrous, beastly form and let loose a howl. Hannibal could only stare at it, right as the creature thrashed, ramming into several walled crates, which caused a cascade to rain down the length of the room. Hannibal thudded against the door as several cages collapsed heavily nearby, inching the door closer to closed and causing it to stick.

It was no longer wide enough for a man to get through.

Hannibal refused to let panic or fear settle in, although the sensation of suddenly being prey felt quite odd.

“Shit! Shit,” he heard from the other side. Will’s thudded against the door, attempting to inch it open as they had done previously. It didn’t budge.

“Will!” Hannibal shouted through the crack. At his feet, his eye caught the glint of metal of the fire axe. He grabbed as its handle. “ _Will_.”

He could see a figure beyond the door, barely. Could see Will’s wide eyes on the other side. “Hannibal, I’ll get it. I'll be back, I promise, just don’t—“

From out of the darkness came a thick, bristly dark leg. It looked like something stolen from a spider, or maybe a crab. It wrapped itself tightly around the axe and jerked spasmodically, sending Hannibal into an opposite wall, crashing into a cage and landing on the floor. The doctor somehow retained his grip on the weapon, but his mobile went skittering across the concrete, its light spinning against the ceiling casting odd shadows through the grates of the pens.

He thought he could see the thing clearly now. It had grown in size, impossibly large, hovering above him in a mass of fur and tendrils.

He scrambled to his feet, teeth bared as his hands tightened its hold on the axe handle. Hannibal blinked. The small light on the floor barely cracked a dent in the darkness, and therefore was playing nasty tricks on his eyes. He tried to focus on what was directly in front of him. On what were dogs one second, and something else entirely the next.

“Will!?” He shouted, scrambling to his feet. But his own voice barely cleared above the hissing, spitting, mutated noises of the thing. “Will!”

Hannibal swung the fire axe, chopping and hacking at the gurgling silhouette. It made purchase, thudding into a fleshy side and sticking. It howled as Hannibal yanked it back, prepared to make another strike.

An ear-splitting howl came from directly behind him, and a furry missile was flung at him, sending him stumbling to the floor. The axe slid free from his grasp. On his knees, he threw a hand toward his mobile, finding it he gripped the light to his chest. He aimed its shaking light— to see a medium-sized, golden peppered dog standing over him, stance wide and protective.

In its jaws, a small gas canister hung by its thin handle.

Hannibal managed to breathe, his mind registering everything and nothing before him all at once. His heart was beating hard and fast. He couldn’t remember a time when he had been so mindlessly exhilarated.

The dog snarled viciously at him. There was no thinking, only action. The canister released from the animal’s mouth and tumbled away like a runaway jack o’lantern. Hannibal fell on it, untwisting its cap with both hands, liquid spilled to the floor. The stench of gasoline flooded the frozen air. The spill made a trail down the length of the room, seeping into the wood of the desk. His hands fell to his coat pocket, searching.

Before him, the dog paced, stalking, its hackles raised and fangs bared. A thick black tentacle slithered along the floor, as if looking to snatch at Hannibal and the dog barked hysterically at it before leaping onto the creature. Jaws and claws tore into the thing as it flailed to unseat the other from its flesh, black ooze weeping from open cuts and bites. Fangs gripped into the slice of flesh the axe had cleaved and the following pained screech could shatter glass.

A corded tendril whipped out from behind the creatures back and snagged the dog by its throat. A yelp was violently cut off as it looped again, and again, around its neck. The dog’s muzzle had begun to blacken and rip open, its own claws sharpening and ribs splitting through fur and flesh, and yet no blood spilled. Its fangs extended as it snarled for air.  

The thing squeezed and squeezed and squeezed as Hannibal threw the match.


	5. Things

**Chapter Five: Things**

The moment the match left Hannibal’s hand, flames shot across the floor, following the splattered trail of gasoline, striking the center of the thing. The snarled arms released the struggling dog, which broke away immediately, spinning away from the mass. The dog raced back down the room towards Hannibal as a pained screeched emanated from the burst of fire. The dog panted, its split muzzle dipped crimson, its flesh slowly melding as if stitching itself back together.

The flush of heat from the fire against his skin was incredible, and the wooden desk in the room began to burn. Black smoke began to chase up the cages and walls. The thing mewed and screeched and clawed against the floor, the thick stench of burning fur and flesh filling the air. On his feet, Hannibal backed away until he hit the door, hooking an arm through the opening and shoving. The door barely squeaked as he struggled with it, and then the dog was there, a solid weight against his calf as it snaked its way through the meager opening. At his feet, through the haze of smoke and fire-light, the glint of the axe blade flickered. Hannibal grabbed at it, right as the door gave way.

The hinges snapped, bending against an unknown weight and strength and Hannibal made his way through, slipping though the doorway. Behind him, white-heat emanated with another loud screech which reminded Hannibal briefly of nails against a chalkboard. Steady on his feet, axe in hand, he looked down the hallway now before him.

Will Graham stood, skin molded and blackened as if burned, running down his mid-section to his knees, with smaller patches around his neck and left shoulder. The black and red Hannibal recognized was thick and tar-like in appearance and he imagined, by touch, if he were to dare do so. But it wasn’t a foreign substance that was coating Will’s skin, he quickly realized, it _was_ his skin. A shifting, bubbling mass that slipped smoothly across seemingly unmarred, pale flesh. He was nude, which Hannibal barely registered, too madly focused on Will’s face, which held an unusual mixture of both sheer terror and furious determination.

Will’s hands were at his sides, a blackened tendril seemingly melted down from Will’s left shoulder, curling down his bicep and toward his hand. A thin, spindly stem dripped down from his fingertip, before quickly retreating back to the flesh of Will’s arm, as if knowing it was being watched.

All of this took mere moments in time to witness, watch and know.

Will, the dog, the thing… it all clicked neatly in Hannibal’s mind.

“Hannibal—“

“Where is your gun?”

Will didn’t hesitate. “It doesn’t matter, it won’t work. It won’t work on this. We need to go.”

Hannibal followed Will without further questions.

Pitched into darkness, Hannibal followed the sound of Will’s padded footsteps in front of him as they made their way to the stairs and up. Behind them continued the menacing, hair-raising howls of the burning abomination as it screeched and slammed repeatedly into the door, its body too large to fit through the narrow opening.

Black smoke curled above them and Hannibal lowered his head, focusing on breathing and navigating in the dark from memory. They reached the stairwell and climbed two steps at a time. Almost to the lobby level, they felt the floor beneath them rumble and the sound of steel snapping against an unspeakable force echoed up the steel staircase.

Glancing up and out, Hannibal could see through the upper barred windows the purpling dusk that reflected through the icicles dripping from bare tree limbs. It was just beyond, mere meters away. One more floor and they would be at the lobby, they would be close to freedom. He turned to Will, who was already shaking his head.

“Go. I can’t leave. I can’t… can’t leave until it’s… until this is all done. Every single trace.”

“Then what must we do, Will.”

It was more of a statement than a question, and Will stared at him before his face did something complicated and he turned away. He twisted his body to face the hallway off the staircase.  

Searching Will’s gaze and following where he looked, he caught the sight of more fuel canisters beyond the doorframe of the stairs, some toppled and empty but many which looked full and heavy. Further down into the room, several red generators sat. He recalled the dozens of gas and fuel canisters met along the way, one even brought to him by Will, just minutes earlier.

“I believe you aren’t the first to have the idea you are currently having,” Hannibal began, sweeping wet bangs from his forehead. He could taste the tinge of copper in the air and wondered idly if he were cut and wounded in places his adrenaline currently refused him to feel. It didn’t particularly concern him.

Stepping out of the stairwell and into the large, ruined space, Hannibal stared down at the containers and cabling as Will joined him, the stairwell door swinging shut behind. Taking a step, Hannibal allowed his eyes to focus on the medium-sized, wooden boxes tucked into the corners, so innocuous they had been complete overlooked. On its front, in black, faded lettering, read; _DINAMITAS_.

Dynomite.

Realization dug a claw into his side as Hannibal took a breath and turned to Will. “Every floor is rigged.”

A _bang_. And another. Metal tore just below them. It sounded distant, like the hull of a ship being breached while submerged. It was searching for them.  

They paused, and Will’s nudity became more apparent as he began to shiver as if cold, but Hannibal doubted that reason could possibly be the case at this point.

“They were,” Will stopped, crossing his arms, his nudity of no concern to him. “They were going to bring the entire base down. Instead they had a failed ‘arson’, they couldn’t do it in time… Destroying everything was their final plan.”

Knowing the answer, Hannibal still asked the question. “When would they do so?”

“If and when any thing escaped.”

A soft bubbling came from just beyond the concrete wall and they froze. It was followed by a tentative scratching against the walls. Hannibal’s fingers tightened on the axe. The scratching intensified, then grew louder. Will’s voice was a strained whisper.

“Don’t move. It’s dying. It has to be. But just wait.”

The scratching had risen to a steady, insistent pounding. It boomed hollowly as something massive threw its weight against it. The room began to shake. Hannibal raised an arm, ready to strike at the doorway.

Then the ceiling gave way and it dropped directly down into their midst. Instinctively the pair split, throwing themselves away from the dark mass now occupying the middle of the room. As he stumbled backward, Hannibal could see it still smoldering bulk as flames licked its pink flesh beneath a black crust of paper-thin skin. For an instant they could see it clearly: a raging, constantly shifting gelatinous form silhouetted against the fire and dusk-light.  

Something hard as steel thrust out. It had knobs and sharp projections and things like wide, stiff fangs scattered across it. It just missed Will and went right through a pane of glass and flailed.

Will bolted for a canister. As he jumped something erupted from the center of the mound and speared him in his side. He cried out, and Hannibal made a move toward the other man, but a chitinous limb lashed out and sent Hannibal rolling to avoid it and dodge its mate which struck blindly at the floor, almost dismissive. It was after Will, Hannibal realized with abject clarity, and he was merely an irritating presence. A probing tentacle curled around Will’s bare leg and yanked him away from the can.

It was singularly fixated on Will, and Hannibal didn’t hesitate. He stood swiftly and reached, chopping with his axe with a finessed, comfortable ease. The burning limb split cleanly, spiraling away from Will in pain as the massive body wailed and screeched. Roping an arm around Will, Hannibal pulled the other up to his feet as the severed limb spun wildly in search of something to grab.

Reaching, Hannibal’s hands grappled with a large, heavy canister at his side. He uncapped and threw it, the force of his throw nearly causing him to topple backwards against Will. The canister landed mere inches short of the twisting, flaming creature. It caught a firey spark and exploded. The smaller fire on the twisting horror was suddenly enveloped in a blast of white flame.

They dropped behind a turned over table, Hannibal covering Will’s bare back as if to protect him from the heat of the fire.

In the briefest of moments, they shifted and Hannibal could now clearly see Will’s stab wound, a deep, messy smile-like gash along Will’s left ribcage where he was speared. It bled heavily, dripping down the side of his belly to his thigh and calf where it pooled at his bare feet.  It was wet and wine-red. Hannibal’s hands twitched at the sight.

The thing howled and raised itself on many snarled arms and bellowed into the room. The burning smell was incredible. Hannibal made a movement, but Will’s arm snatched his bicep, aborting it. Admittedly startled to stillness, Hannibal met Will’s dark stare with his own.

“Get back to the car. This place is coming down.”

“We can—“

It was a movement so swift he couldn’t track it. In an instant, something tackled him and his vision blacked out. Limbs coiled around his body and hefted. Intellectually he knew it was much too large to be the body of the man he was just next to…however, it didn’t harm him, handling him with an awkward gentleness. A sound of crashing, of steel barriers bending and of glass shattering and Hannibal felt himself be released. He toppled as he fell.

The landing was just this shy of shaking out all the breath in his lungs. Snow crunched beneath his back, soaking into his coat.

Hannibal was on his feet, wheeling to orient himself immediately. The axe was no longer in his hand, and his eyes searched the snow in vain, before his gaze went up to the outside of the compound.

Weighty, black spirals of smoke heaved into the starred sky. He could see the floor he was thrown from, the window shattered and bars bent. Roars and crashes emanated from just beyond and his heart beat heavily against his ribcage.

Will was just inside, just beyond his reach, trapped and fighting against an unnamable thing.

He wiped his brow, his hand coming away red and wet. A window just to his upper left exploded, belching fire and he took steps backwards, maintaining his balance as he stepped away.

Another smaller explosion. And another. Flames erupted and licked up the side. It began to slowly crumble.

Backing away, Hannibal watched expressionless. Transfixed.

He walked for several minutes. The snow chomped beneath his boots in slushy crunches. And then it happened. There came a _boom_ in the distance and Hannibal paused, feeling the delayed reverberation rattle through his chest, buzzing through his teeth. He turned to watch the vibrant, red-orange cloud heave into the sky. He listened to the crumble of concrete and glass collapse, finally giving way.

When Hannibal turned back around, Will stood before him.

A spike of alarm raised the hairs immediately along Hannibal’s neck and spine at the sudden sight. That indescribable yet frightening feeling was back. _Prey_ , he thinks, yet again. _This is how prey feels._ Wary. Startled. Exhilarated. He had always wondered what that felt like from the other side.

There is no humanity in Will’s eyes. Grime lines the creases of his face. The open slit at his side is weeping and fresh bruises and cuts pepper his chest and sides. His hands and jaws are caked black.

Hannibal’s breaths remain steady, white puffs of warm air escaping into the chilled night. Will’s breath remains unseen. 

"It's done."

“Are you to kill me now, Will?” He asks with a tilt of his head.

Will’s jaw tensed, but it was his only movement. “No.”

“No?”

“I aimed to save your life. Away from the building.”

“And why is that?”

“You aren’t contaminated.”

Hannibal’s eyebrow raises at the word. “Unlike Dr. Zeller, I would imagine.” Hannibal’s tone was casual, even as he tracked Will’s every facial tic.

Will’s black eyes narrowed, the highlights thin pinpricks from the stars.

“Jack had called earlier about Dr. Zeller,” Hannibal continued, gathering Will’s confusion would stem from his knowledge of such an event. “Most unfortunate.”

“He got too close,” Will starts softly, taking a step towards the man. It’s a stalk, one of a predator, and Hannibal can feel the hitch of adrenaline ramp in his body. “They all get too close.”

“Nora Hubbard. Joseph Benning.”

“Joseph Benning was already dead,” Will’s lip curls at the memory. “He was shot by the pilot, who was also infected. He infected the rest. I did what I had to at the time.”

“You have hunted those who are contaminated.”

“Yes.”

“And you kill them.”

“Yes.”

“Consume them.”

Will hesitates, a twitch in his throat giving way to an emotional response. Ashamed. Guilty. Angry.

“You escaped from there.”

“Not just me. Others, too. But they’re gone now.”

“You have ensured that fact.”

Will says nothing to this. His knees shake, betraying his exhaustion.

“I’ve been running.”

Hannibal gives a motion to the direction of the destroyed compound and takes a step towards Will. Then another. “I believe you can stop now.”

“And what will you do, Hannibal?” Will lifts his head, and briefly, a small black tendril peaks and coils around Will’s neck. In a way it’s almost meant to remind Hannibal what Will is capable. As if Hannibal could ever for a moment forget. It withdraws just as quickly.

“Am I meant to do something?” Hannibal asks, genuinely curious.

In the far, far reaches of the wood, a siren wails in the distance.

“That would be emergency services responding to reports no doubt,” he says calmly, observing the well of slight alarm rise in Will’s eyes. His gaze narrows into Will’s wound. “I’ve a medical kit in my trunk. But perhaps we might continue this conversation in a more ideal location.”

 

* * *

   

Will allows himself to relax fractionally even as the sharp sting assaults him. Hannibal’s touch is gentle, cautious and aware, as he cleans out the gash which had torn through his side. The antiseptic stings only briefly, and he feels his stomach flex, as if wishing to jerk away at the hands which smoothed down his flank. It wasn’t the pain so much as the unfamiliar touch of warm hands against him, which causes him to withdraw.

The dogs have finally settled upon his return, piling at the foot of his bed and watching intently as Hannibal cleans and dresses him. They yawn and snuffle as Hannibal withdraws a suture from his bag.

“I would have assumed such a wound would not be so detrimental to you,” Hannibal begins conversationally, pulling the wet cloth against his skin gently. “My observations would have been this would be easily overcome.”

He tries not to bristle as he feels defensive for an unknown, ridiculous reason. “A bullet, a knife… No. But one of my own… It’s different. And fire...” Will lets it drift.

“Hm,” Hannibal’s eyes glance up with a small yet comfortable smile.

Will is anxious, enormously so. Hannibal’s touch is warm and soothing and yet it sets him on edge. Even as he’s sutured and quietly patched, he waits. Waits. Waits.

“I believe a thank you is in order. To you, for saving my life.” At the words, Hannibal withdraws, stripping gloves off his hands.

“I wouldn’t have made it out of there in the first place without you,” Will diverts and Hannibal chuckles.

“It was my idea to enter. I had begun to formulate a theory.”

This causes Will pause. He pulls a leg up onto the bed as Hannibal reclines in the chair, but a hand remains on the bedspread. “A theory.” Will deadpans.

“You only expressed interest in joining me when I revealed that the building was still, in effect, running. As if you held an obligation. As well as Dr. Zeller. And your scent.”

“My _scent_?”

“You don’t have one.”

Will pulls away, posture straightening.

“Soap, detergent and an unappealing body cologne but underneath there is nothing. No base scent. Save for this morning. It made me quite curious.”

Will can feel his face heat, a blush raising along his neck and upper chest. “This morning?’”

“Coming into your home, I asked if you were alone. My initial impression was that you were not, that someone’s scent still lingered, but not your own. It was of Brian Zeller. And then the call from Jack. You had murdered him recently, and took upon his scent, not just a smell, but a specific bouquet which emanates from skin. An imitation you are unaware of creating. Perhaps, this gives you the empathic abilities beyond what many are capable.”

“It wasn’t murder.” Will suddenly states firmly and Hannibal stops. “I don’t … I don’t murder.”

“A mercy killing, then.” Hannibal says after a moment.

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

They fall silent. Will’s head swims and clouds, attempting to parse through Hannibal’s comments and his heart and mind are having difficulties keeping up. A pulse pounds against his temple and he closes his eyes. His flesh craves in a long-dormant yet familiar way as a hot shift crawls under his skin and stretches, stretches, stretches.

Eyes closed, taste floods his mouth and it’s Hannibal. Nearly indescribable and Will groans. Hannibal burnished dark, brackish and coppery at the end of the day. Will can feel Hannibal’s pulse just under his tongue, his own beginning to beat in time. He opens his eyes, to meet Hannibal’s who is fascinated and immoveable. He realizes, only then, that a thick, coiled tendril has been exposed and roped itself around the man’s wrist.

Will can feel, taste, sense Hannibal’s body by that single tendril alone, finding purchase and security around the man’s body. Technically, Hannibal isn’t touching him, but it’s as if he does, as if he is running multiple hands around Will’s whole body, desiring him. Sensation crackles along Will’s frame like an electric current. His nerves light and spark and he is endlessly aware of the man sitting just before him.

The tendril spirals along Hannibal’s wrist and squeezes as if testing the tensile strength of it. The tip pauses along a vein, smoothing around his hand and curling like a reptile seeking warmth. Hannibal is watching, intrigued and silent. Will’s skin is too hot, too thin, he’s afraid of something horrific happening. Afraid of something swift and uncontrollable sinking fangs into his mind and taking control.  

“You are you, Will,” Hannibal says into the quiet. “There’s nothing else but you.”

A beat passes. Hannibal’s leans forward, and Will allows it, not shifting away. Lips press against his sweat-slicked collarbone, a feather-light touch of air. It's quiet, tender and nearly reverent. Bravely, Will brings a hand and soaks fingers through Hannibal’s sticky-damp hair, letting the pads of his fingers dig into his scalp, seeking sanctum. This touch, spark, connection, is beyond exhilarating. He groans at the contact, at this man who took an axe to his biggest nightmare, feeling safe and ragged and soaked.

“Do you think I’m a monster?” Will shakes out softly.

Hannibal shifts against him, taking a moment. “No more than I.” Hannibal’s voice is low and slumberous against Will’s neck.

"And what have you done?" Will asks. Tendrils pool atop the bedspread, feeling relaxed. “Would others deem you a monster?” He closes his eyes and exhales as Hannibal’s hand cups a knee, fingers gripping his thigh. “Just some thing to be feared, to be hunted and discarded?”

Hannibal lifts his gaze to meet Will's dark eyes. "If we are to be things, then let us be things together."

 

** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> [Reapersun ](http://www.reapersun.tumblr.com) and [ BelladonnaQ](http://www.belladonnaq.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> [Reapersun ](http://www.reapersun.tumblr.com) and [ BelladonnaQ](http://www.belladonnaq.tumblr.com)


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